


Tip of the Lighthouse

by BalefireFlatlands



Series: The Balefire [1]
Category: Mad Max (Video Game 2015)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2019-09-14 11:33:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16912125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BalefireFlatlands/pseuds/BalefireFlatlands
Summary: Jeet and some alone time.





	Tip of the Lighthouse

The pain in his head was driving him crazy. It sent shockwaves down his skull and into his arm, making him grind his teeth. With one hand gripped tightly into the arm of his chair he pressed his fingers into the blades embedded in his forehead, trying to focus on that lesser pain rather than the horrible throbbing that was threatening to drive him mad. He tried to slow his breathing, calm himself, but none of his standard ways to get past the pain were working. Nothing left to do but sit there and accept the agony.

Opening his eyes he surveyed his domain, his stronghold, the lighthouse that he had made his home. The other residents were mostly sleeping, a few patrolling the upper reaches of the lighthouse on the off chance Scrotus’ boys decided to lay siege to them. It’d been a few weeks since the last time, they were probably due for another battle any day now.

Abruptly Jeet stood, motions jerky as he twitched from the pain thundering in the damaged half of his body. A walk, he could use a walk; clear his head, think about some shit.

The circular landing was deserted, it being the middle of the night the resident Wastelanders were sleeping on the platforms above, mattresses scattered about with barely any privacy. But at least there was safety inside the walls of the lighthouse, his people understood that some sacrifices had to be made. Resources were scarce and walls and rooms just weren’t a priority.

His feet clunked against the metal grating of the platform, rubbing his head as he headed for the staircase. A twinge of yellow caught his eye and he turned, the platform wasn’t deserted after all, his prisoner from the Bullet Farm was sleeping in the small storage alcove behind the table he had been using to prepare gunpowder. The guy’s name escaped Jeet right now, he’d just been calling him Bullet Boy and the prisoner had responded.

Curled up into a ball on his side he almost looked healthy and intact, it was hard to tell in the dim lighting just how scrawny and malnourished he was. And the way he was sleeping hid the stump where his arm used to be. Jeet had almost sent him off to take a long walk into the desert when the road warrior had brought him back to the stronghold and he’d seen that injury, thinking him worthless. But he’d proven invaluable since then, knowing more than just the recipe for black powder Jeet had wanted him for. He made guns, he made bullets, he’d made various explosives for them, albeit much, much, slower than he would have with all his extremities.

Blas Cap. That was his name. Jeet eyed him again before moving on to the steps and climbing up the spiral staircase. He should get the man a mattress. Or at the very least a blanket. He’d been instrumental in fighting off the War Boys last time they’d attacked, and he hadn’t complained about anything. Or tried to escape. He’d been a model prisoner actually, and Jeet could probably stand to be a little nicer to him. Distrust ran deep out here in the Wasteland though, and he still wasn’t going to think of him as anything other than a resource to be used.

Up at the very top of the lighthouse, Jeet emerged from the hatch and let it drop behind him, completely alone. Just him and the wind and the dust and dirt stretching towards the horizon in all directions. He couldn’t see it in the dark, but he could feel it, oppressive, confining in its bleakness. Leaning heavily on the railing he stared off into the blackness. He could see the glow of Gastown ever present in the distance, a few other lights here and there indicating Scrotus’ camps, small tribes of drifters, Buzzards, it was impossible to tell.

The cool air was helping, but the pain hadn’t subsided enough to ignore. If it wasn’t the middle of the night he’d have taken a gun from the armory and gone to let off some steam outside the lighthouse. He sighed, listening to the sounds emanating from below him: talking, some groans of pain from the wounded and dying, and then muffled moans from two people that had found a much better way to pass the time.

He laughed, oh those were the days when he could just spend his nights getting laid instead of worrying about being attacked or if they had enough water and resources. And unfortunately for his libido he had moral qualms about propositioning any of the residents for sex. He was their leader, it was an abuse of his power against people who trusted him to take care of them. He shouldn’t think like that, he should be hardened against any sort of feelings of impropriety. No one else in the world gave a damn. But he just couldn’t do it, and he’d thought about it a lot.

With a groan he rested his head against the cool metal of the railing. Of course he could fuck that Bullet Boy if he wanted to. Blas Cap didn’t have any expectation of protection, he was a prisoner, he didn’t have any rights. But he was also horrifically injured and Jeet wasn’t a monster. He’d let him sleep. Still, that would be an option in the future when the guy wasn’t still bleeding occasionally and going through bandages faster than they could scavenge them.

But that was the future; this was now. And just like every night for eons it was just Jeet and himself. He reached into his pants, sliding his skin back so he he could flick his thumb over the cleft at the top of his dick. He didn’t even have anything specific to rub off to, no idealized, perfect person in his mind to pretend to fuck. All he had was himself and the barren wastes, and yet somehow, in the midst of the darkness it was enough.

Sliding himself out of his pants he leaned against the wall encasing what would have been the housing for the light that kept ships from sinking. But that had been a long time ago. The light was long gone, the ships were all scavenged and left bare, the ocean had retreated beyond the edge of the world. Stroking himself slowly he hung his head, focusing on the feelings in his groin instead of the pain that encompassed one half of his body. Yeah, that was better already.

He wished he had something wet to help slick his hand, but what a waste that would be. Grimacing he banged his head into the railing, he was still thinking about fucking resource allocation while jacking off. He continued his stroking, remembering with longing a time before this, when things were hard but not impossible, when life was still rough, but wasn’t a death sentence, when he didn’t have to worry about a whole host of people and their livelihood.

Cursing as he climaxed he coated the wall with his cum, leaning his head heavily against the wall. Yeah. That was better. Slightly, and the pain would return soon enough. But even the brief respite was worth it. It was all he had and it would have to be enough.

He’d stay up there for a while, letting the wind and sand whip against him as he thought about the future and tried to not dwell on the past. All he could do was go forward, defend his people, work to make a better life for them. Maybe an easier life for him too.


End file.
